


A Crossroads of Fate

by Serendipitous_We_Meet_642



Series: Run! [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: And so is Eric Kripke, Angst and humor mingle, BBC is a destroyer of souls, Crowley is a tricky son of a, Gen, No direct spoilers for Sherlock or Doctor Who, Spoilers for Episode: s07e08 "Season 7 Time for a Wedding", SuperWhoLock Crossover!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13710423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642/pseuds/Serendipitous_We_Meet_642
Summary: “Now, look, I know it’s a tough sell, but trust me, it’s worth-”“Deal.”  The word was out before John could even fully process the ramifications of what he had just said.  He just knew that, a year or not, he couldn’t let his best friend rot in the depths of Hell because of some stupid case.John has made possibly the worst mistake of his life.  It's a good thing he has friends (some old, some new) to help him out and hopefully stop the plans of one King of Hell.





	1. Prologue: Dealing Is A Dangerous Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, guys! This multi-chapter adventure is a fun brain child that came to me way too late in the night, so I hope you all enjoy! It will also have prequels that will explain the established relationships between Sherly and Jawn and the Doctor and the Winchester boys and the Doctor. For now, though, just know that the Winchesters know a little 'bout our favorite alien, and the 221B Baker Street Squad are privy to at least some of the details of the Doctor's livelihood.
> 
> Disclaimer: The wonderful Eric Kripke and the BBC own these extraordinary characters, not me! If I owned them, this crossover would have happened long ago. ;)
> 
> Anywhos, enjoy and I love you all, my beauties! ~ Lily

November 10th, 2011. England -

 

John didn’t think it was possible he’d ever get the scream out of his head. It was just going to bounce around in there, echoing over and over again, until he either went insane or died. Whichever came first.

It was all because of that silly, stupid case. Nothing big or world-changing. No, it had just been a simple whodunit over a bunch of botched surgeries. Not their usual kind of case, but Sherlock was fascinated as soon as John handed him the paper. So, they had investigated further, and now…here he was. Alone.

He had seen his friend ripped apart before his eyes, eaten by that…that thing. He didn’t have any words left to describe it. It had clearly been not of this world (John shivered as he imagined the sharp teeth and the lolling tongue), which should have rocked the very foundations of John’s view of the universe, but somehow...somehow it didn’t. Yes, he was surprised, but it seemed almost insignificant compared to the more pressing matter of his best friend’s death.

That’s what had led him here. Once he had gotten over his initial shock enough to realize that, yes, supernatural beings were real, he had immediately tried to figure out if it was even slightly possible to make a deal with one. It was a beyond stupid idea, and he knew Sherlock would be yelling at him about his idiocy right now, but that was exactly the thing. Sherlock wasn’t around to yell at him anymore. He wasn’t around to ignore John for hours or prattle on to him about the grammatical errors in the papers or have to be reminded that the Sun didn’t revolve around the Earth, surprisingly. There was no second cuppa to prepare, no armchair to fill, no one there to discuss a case or to talk to about Mrs. Hudson’s most recent escapade into the world of romance. No partner in crime, no one to make weirdly accurate assumptions about people based on their shoe size. There was no Sherlock.

John was living in a world suddenly filled with supernatural beings (who’s to say there weren’t more out there if those vile creatures in the hospital existed), yet his world felt emptier than it ever had before. John couldn’t stand it. So, he did the only thing he could think of: he found out how to summon a deal-making demon.

Now, don’t get John wrong here. He never thought it would actually work. He had seen those disgusting things clear as day as they tore ravenously into…as they ate, but he couldn’t help but start to doubt what his memories in the weeks following the event. Maybe it was just his mind falling apart. Maybe supernatural things didn’t exist. Maybe he was being a fool by planting the box full of a few of his personal belongings and a couple other assorted items into the dirt in the crossroads. Maybe he was making a big mistake.

But he couldn’t think about that now, not when he was so close. Which is why he called out for someone, anyone, to come make a deal with him.

“Well, hello there, Doc,” a slimy voice oozed behind John. He twisted around, nearly giving himself whiplash with the force of the motion. A well-dressed gentleman was standing in one of the paths in a space that had previously been empty, grinning. Well, that eased one of John’s doubts, at least; supernatural beings, check.

“Who are you?” John asked, his voice firm even though every instinct he had was screaming at him to run.

“Oh, just your average King of Hell,” the strange man smirked, and John tensed with shock. I thought this was supposed to summon demons, not Lucifer himself.

“King…of what?” John had meant to keep the fear out of his voice, but it shone through anyway. The demon or Lucifer or whatever it was grinned wider at the sound.

“I know what you’re thinking: ‘Oh my gosh, is it really Satan himself? I’m so honored!’ Sorry, kid, not your lucky day. I’m the new guy, Satan’s…er…replacement, you could say. He wasn’t feeling up to the job anymore. My name’s Crowley. Pleasure,” the “King of Hell” took a step forward, extending a hand which John didn’t dare shake.

“Okay…Crowley. So, what’s with coming to see me? I thought crossroad demons were usually more of the employee sort,” John pointed out, despite his brain’s best efforts to try to get him to shut up and focus on what he came for. 

“Don’t get too high an opinion of yourself, John. You’re just a very useful pawn at the moment, and I would hate to see you being taken care of by anyone less than the best. Can’t trust lackies to get the job done right, now can I?” Crowley crooned, “So, here’s my deal for you: you get a year and your precious Sherly back. Year’s up, I collect, but until then, it will be just like the good times between you and your pet detective. Sound good?” Crowley sauntered even closer to John, who involuntarily shifted backward.

“Aren’t you supposed to make 10-year deals?” John asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, well, different deals for different people, John. But this is my one and only offer. Take it or leave it.”

“How do I know you won’t double-cross me?” John’s uncertainty was rising every second he stood in this accursed road.

“Because what would happen to Hell if my customers couldn’t trust me? I’ll deliver, Doc. Just remember: you try to double-cross me, and Sherly drops dead again. Now, look, I know it’s a tough sell, but trust me, it’s worth-”

“Deal.” The word was out before John could even fully process the ramifications of what he had just said. He just knew that, a year or not, he couldn’t let his best friend rot in the depths of Hell because of some stupid case.

“Well, you’re a hasty one. But if that’s what you want, who am I to argue?” A smirk stretched sickeningly far across Crowley’s face, and his next step brought him directly into John’s personal space.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? Demon deals have to be sealed with a kiss.” John didn’t think it was possible for Crowley’s smile to get any larger.

After taking a deep breath, John went for it. He had nothing left to lose, after all.

 

~~~***~~~  
November 11th, 2011. On the road away from Las Vegas -

 

“So, what’d you think that megalomaniac meant when he said he was going to leave us alone?” Sam wondered, glancing at his brother.

“I think he meant he wants that Leviathan son of a bitch dead, and he’s desperate,” Dean replied, his gaze on the road as he snorted derisively.

“Really? That’s what you think?” Sam frowned at Dean.

Dean flashed him an annoyed look, “And you don’t?”

“No, I agree, I just didn’t ever think we’d agree about the intentions of a demon. I figured you’d think he was out to get us or something,” Sam stated.

“He always is,” Dean harrumphed, “But we’re his enemy’s enemy. Crowley’s not stupid; he does what’s best for himself. Hence…” Dean paused and swallowed.

“Yeah,” Sam interrupted, hoping to distract Dean from him. They had enough problems already without reminiscing about the past.

They settled into silence, neither making any move to turn on the radio or to speak. This lull, however, was interrupted by a violent swerving of the Impala and a loud “Son of a bitch!” from Dean as something appeared in the middle of the road. The Impala screeched to a halt on the side of the country road, and the Winchesters exchanged a glance that represented an entire conversation in under 5 seconds before both stepping out, hands on the guns tucked in their jeans.

Smack dab in the middle of the road, where nothing had been a minute before, was a blue police box. Most normal people would be surprised or confused to witness such a sight, but the Winchester brothers had never been normal.

“Goddamn stupid aliens,” Dean grumbled, taking his hand off his gun and marching up to the scratched-up doors of the police box, giving them a good pounding before calling, “Doctor, I know you’re in there! C’mon out!”

A cheerful face surrounded by spikes of chocolate hair poked out, brown eyes lighting up at the sight of the elder Winchester.

“Dean! How you been?” the madman grinned, thrusting open the door of the T.A.R.D.I.S. and stepping out, “And Sam! Good to see you!”

“Good to see you, too, Doctor,” Sam greeted politely, coming to stand beside his brother.

“Yeah, real great, Doc. Listen, what was with the appearing act?” Dean groused.

“What? Oh, me arriving in the middle of the road? Sorry ‘bout that! I was aiming for the side of the road,” the Doctor admitted sheepishly.

“Doctor, where are we?” a voice called from inside the T.A.R.D.I.S., and a moment later, a redheaded woman emerged, her expression a mix between interest and annoyance.

“Who’s this?” Dean grunted, giving the woman the look.

“I swear, you’re as bad as Jack. This is Donna,” the Doctor rolled his eyes and introduced his companion, “Don’t. Just don’t.”

Sam let out a small huff of laughter at that but shut up when he saw Dean’s glare, “Nice to meet you, Donna. I’m Sam, this is Dean.”

“Good to meet you boys,” Donna gave them a weird look before turning to the Doctor, “I thought you said we were going somewhere fun? This…” she gestured around, “…is not my definition of fun.”

“Yes, about that. Tiny change in plans!” the Doctor explained with a nervous kind of excitement. He looked back to the Winchesters, “I need your help.”

 

~~~***~~~  
November 10th, 2011. England -

 

Sherlock blinked a few times, attempting to regain his vision. Everything was dark, and his mind was “rebooting” in a sense; basically, processing all the information it could in the most disorienting fashion possible. Then, he struck upon the tiny tidbit of memory that had been his death. Wait, what?

Sherlock was usually very logical and remembered everything to the T, so how he could remember something like dying when it couldn’t have actually happened was beyond even his superior intellect. He’d have to get Mycroft on the case as soon as he could see. Literally. The darkness hadn’t faded, and Sherlock started to wonder if he was blind until he felt around and realized he was in some kind of box. Strange…

Making some quick deductions, Sherlock determined it was most likely a coffin. But why bury him unless…unless…

Sherlock fumbled for something in his pockets that could bring light into the pitch black of his literal and metaphorical prison and came up with his trusty lighter.

“Aha!” he cried excitedly as the thing lit, returning sight to the world. Glancing around, he confirmed that yes, he was definitely in a coffin, which meant…he was trapped. Perfect.

Suddenly, sunlight flooded the enclosed space, and Sherlock – for the first time he could remember – did a double-take as he stared up at the hand outstretched to him from a sweaty, grimy John, standing over his apparent grave.

“Welcome back, idiot.”


	2. Chapter 1: The Hand You're Dealt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aghh, sorry I didn't post another chapter sooner! School is a son of a bitch. But hey, here it is finally! The next chappie in our little misadventure, extra long for the extra wait. ;) Enjoy! ~ Lily <3

November 11th, 2011. A country road –

 

“You need our help? You’re the one with the magic box,” Dean snorted.

“Yes, well, my current problem isn’t exactly in my department,” the Doctor explained, sighing heavily, “You both know how to deal with crossroads demons, right?”

That shut both brothers up instantly.

 

~~~***~~~

 

November 10th, 2011. Sherlock’s grave –

 

Sherlock, for one of the first times in his life, was absolutely stunned. His brain tried to piece together everything into a coherent pattern, but it just…couldn’t. If he was really in what very much looked like a grave and he remembered dying quite vividly (unfortunately), then he must have been dead. But the laws of the universe stated it was impossible to come back to life, except in very specific cases; none of which included being eaten alive by…well, whatever that thing had been. That in and of itself was a mystery.

Realizing he’d left John hanging, he finally reached up and allowed his best friend to haul him out of his would-be grave. It took him a moment more to realize he was still staring open-mouthed. How embarrassing.

“So, how are you feeling?” John asked after a long, heavy silence.

“Just wonderful,” Sherlock nodded his head awkwardly as if to reaffirm his own statement. What was he doing, acting like an idiot? Part of his brain whispered he was probably in shock from coming back to life. The rest of his brain fervently ignored that thought.

“Great. That’s…that’s great,” John gestured toward the cemetery surrounding them, “Do you want to…?”

“Yes. That’d…that’d be a good idea,” Sherlock managed, a little ashamed at his brain’s failure to achieve the basic function of speaking.

Neither dared to break the blanket of silence that seemed to cover the cemetery as they headed off toward the exit, leaving behind an empty grave and a pile of dirt. Sherlock absently wondered what the newspapers would make of that, but he was a little too focused on other matters to prompt John about cleaning it up.

Finally, Sherlock couldn’t bear it any longer. “So…I was dead?” It was a stupid question, but this situation was ridiculous enough that Sherlock figured he’d get a pass.

“Yes, you were,” John answered, not meeting Sherlock’s gaze.

“How long?”

“About a month.”

“A month?” Sherlock’s eyebrows met in confusion, “I was dead for a month? But…how did I...?”

“Don’t worry about it, Sherlock,” John finally looked up, meeting Sherlock’s critical eye. Sherlock blinked; his typically able-to-read-like-an-open-book friend was masking something large from him, something Sherlock couldn’t understand. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“You’re back now,” John continued decisively, as if the matter needed no further discussion (which Sherlock heartily disagreed with, although he supposed he could wait a little longer to find out the truth), “That’s all that matters.”

“All right,” Sherlock replied in the softest tone he could muster. Then, he added, “I hope you brought cocaine, because dead or not, a month is not a good amount of time to go without a dose.”

John just snorted and shook his head, a miniscule smile flitting over his lips. If there was one thing that Sherlock could read off his friend, it was that he was apparently happy to see Sherlock alive. Well…Sherlock could concur with that, at least. He was rather glad both of them were alive, too.

 

~~~***~~~

 

November 11th, 2011. Country road –

 

“Hold on, let me get this straight. Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes, asked for your help because Watson made a deal – with a demon – to bring him back to life?” Sam recounted, his frown deepening.

“Weeell, asked for my help might be a bit strong,” the Doctor commented, bouncing up and down on his heels, “More like, I was monitoring certain demons, and I found out on my own.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t even know he was dead,” Sam said, a touch of regret in his tone. He had only been out of touch with his favorite British detective’s blog for a month or two, so of course Sherlock had to die in that small space of time. Yeah, Sam knew it was probably stupid to be upset over some guy on the Internet, but hey, he really thought the way Watson presented this dude was fascinating. All those cases, all those caught criminals; he was a genius! Plus, Sam was always on the lookout for any case that might scream supernatural, just in case it was a lead on whatever big bad they were fighting at the time.

“Who is this Sherlock guy anyway? He your boyfriend?” Dean teased.

“No, he’s a sort of PI; big deal over in London. I…read his blog from time to time,” Sam admitted.

Whatever Dean was going to say about Sam’s reading choices died in his throat after one good look at Sam’s bitchface. Dean coughed slightly and continued instead, “Look, I know we’re friends, Doc, but we don’t do cases across the pond. I can call up a local, if you want.”

“No, I’d rather have you two on the case. You two have some of the least salt-and-burn attitudes of any of the hunters I’ve met, which is saying something, and you’re not called the best hunters on the planet for no reason,” the Doctor explained, “Plus, this is personal. Sherlock and Watson are dear friends of mine. I’d just rather you two over any old hunter. Don’t worry, I’ll help you in any way I can, and I can bring you over to London easy-peasy with this beauty.” He patted the box fondly.

“Transport to London’d be great. Dean here isn’t a big fan of airplanes,” Sam saw his chance to get his brother back and took it.

Dean rolled his eyes, “He’s being melodramatic.”

Sam leaned in toward the Doctor, whispering conspiratorially, “Last time we were on one, he looked like he was constipated the entire time.”

“I did not!” 

“You know, while I find this little brotherly spat very amusing, boys, would you kindly shut up?” the redhead – Donna – remarked, startling the Winchesters that had forgotten she was even there, “I’m already not thrilled about this little adventure of the Doctor’s – no offense, mate – because someone didn’t even tell me Hell existed until two minutes before we came here, and I’m not very eager to find out why. So, do me a favor, you two, and puh-lease not make this any harder on all of us.”

Sam snorted, “If you think Hell’s bad, you should see Heaven.” He nearly stopped himself in time and winced at his choice of words, but Dean seemed, at least outwardly, unaffected by the reminder of the past.

“Heaven? Heaven’s real?” Donna apparently hadn’t caught the admittedly subtle facial hints being thrown out by Sam and barged forward through Sam’s carefully constructed wall of let’s-not-talk-about-him-or-that-whole-thing.

“Yeah, and it sucks,” Dean replied, an edge of ice in his tone, before he turned back to the Doctor, “So, let’s say we take the case. We kind of have our own thing going on here, you think you could return the favor and help us out after we help your friend?”

“I can help to a certain extent, I believe. As I’ve said, however, I can’t go altering timelines; it could have the opposite effect of what you want, especially in such a high-stakes situation like this one,” the Doctor advised, then added in a serious tone, “I’m sorry to ask this of you both, especially right now. It’s just…this is rather urgent. The timer is already ticking on John’s year to live.”

“It’s no trouble, we completely understand why you’d come to us,” Sam reassured, flashing his brother a glance that said ‘Dude, we can take the case.’

Dean glared back, his eyes conveying volumes of ‘But we’re in the middle of trying to get rid of the Leviathans.’

‘We’re at a stand-still on that. Plus, he could be a really useful friend to have.’

The Doctor and Donna weren’t quite sure why the brothers were staring at each other so intently, but eventually the Doctor prompted them with a slight cough.

Sam blinked back into reality, slipping out of mental conversation mode, “We’ll take the case. Right, Dean?”

Dean frowned but nodded. He wasn’t too happy with this occurrence of events, but it’s not like he could say no to this alien freak who had apparently saved their lives before. Plus, Sammy was right; he was a good ally to have, and they needed good allies right now. And if Doc could at least assist a little in fixing their black and gooey problem, well, Dean supposed he could find some satisfaction in shredding a demon’s deal.

“Right.”

“Perfecto! Hop on in, fellas!” the Doctor grinned, sidling back toward the box.

“In that? It’s not gonna fit all of us,” Dean noted, looking the box up and down skeptically, then added, “Especially not Sammy here. You’ll have to flatten him first.” It was so worth the bitchface he received in return.

“Come on, don’t ya trust me?” the Doctor replied, sliding into the box with Donna quickly in tow as if to prove his point. After flashing a glance at each other, Sam shrugged as if to say, ‘no harm in trying.’ Dean nodded, and they jogged back to Baby, snatching a few useful items from the trunk and locking the doors. As Sam headed over to the weird box and all of the weird mysteries buried behind its confining walls, Dean gave his Impala a quick, reassuring pat. We’ll be back.

 

~~~***~~~

 

November 10th, 2011. 221B Baker Street, London –

 

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, having washed away as much of the filth from the graveyard as he could. Still, he could not wash away the stench of death that filled his very being. He had come to terms with his apparent death, and now he couldn’t stop wondering and wondering, the gears in his brain turning endlessly, about how he was still alive. How he of all people had been given a second chance and what on this little planet had given it to him, defying all of the laws of the universe in the process?

Putting these disturbing thoughts to rest for a moment (or, more accurately, to ruminate in a corner of his mind palace that he would return to later), Sherlock strode into the main parlor of their apartment, a little happy to see that nothing much had changed in his absence.

“Any new cases, John?” Sherlock asked, noticing John relaxing in his armchair with a cuppa and a newspaper.

“Back at it already, are we, Sherlock?” John flicked his eyes up to meet his friend, his irritated face betraying his obvious excitement and a little…well, if Sherlock didn’t know any better, he’d say concern. But that was ridiculous.

“Yes, well, we don’t all have the gift of being entertained so easily by idiotic things,” Sherlock mocked, internally smiling at the comfortable rhythm they were slipping back into. 

“And there he is. The old Sherlock is back at it again,” John sighed, turning his gaze back to his paper and clearing his throat, “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I’m sure some cases have popped up over the last month, given that no one knew…well, I never got around to announcing your, er, death on the blog, so requests have probably piled up since then.” He gestured vaguely toward the laptop sitting on the desk.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “You didn’t attend to the cases while I was away?”

“I was a bit busy. I do have a life outside of this, you know,” John snapped, then frowned, as if he didn’t know where that outburst had come from, “Look, I’m happy to start working on cases again, but there were some other matters I had to deal with at the time.”

“All right,” Sherlock answered, his eyes narrowing in a gesture so slight only he would have been able to notice it, before grabbing the laptop from its place on the desk and plopping into the armchair across from John. He thought he caught a hint of a smile flit across John’s face at the action, but before he knew it, it was gone. Shrugging internally, he popped open the laptop’s lid, only to come face-to-face with a rather disturbing image – no, not like that. It was a full-screened picture of a painting, a 1600s piece called “An Angel and a Devil Fighting for the Soul of a Child” if Sherlock recognized it correctly (of course he did). It included all the usual for that artistic time period: a partially nude “angel” gently grabbing a distressed, fully nude child’s wrist, a dark form beckoning from the side – utterly boring, uninspired work in Sherlock’s eyes, except for the small fact that he had found it on John’s laptop. Why was John researching old paintings? Was he secretly working on a case he hadn’t told Sherlock about, perhaps? Strange…

Even stranger still was the unsettled feeling in the bottom of Sherlock’s stomach, as if he had seen some of these images before in a much less friendly context. It nagged at him, but after a careful inspection of his memories turned up nothing, he concluded that it must just be side-effects of his inexplicable revival.

Instead, Sherlock focused on how he should approach John about this, before eventually deciding against mentioning it for the time being and clicking away from the image. He should do a little more investigating before bringing it up, so that he could at least have all the facts straight.

On this quest for information, Sherlock was disturbed to find more paintings like the other one dotting his friend’s many Google tabs. There was also a multitude of websites on demon lore scattered throughout the tabs (including one linking to some ridiculous American book series). Sherlock frowned as he moved from one horrifying picture or history document to another, his unease growing by the second. It wasn’t until he found a blog by one WitchAnonymous2394, however, that he truly understood the gravity of the situation.

The text post that had been opened up was a how-to guide for the exact ingredients and procedure needed to summon a “crossroads demon”, a demon that could apparently make your wildest wishes come true for the measly cost of your eternal soul. Well, then. Sherlock wasn’t ready to believe any of this mumbo-jumbo, not before he saw it for himself, but he was alive, so it was definitely worth looking into. Curiously, he began inspecting Watson’s tabs more closely, trying to figure out what exactly had brought him back and ignoring the itch in the back of his mind hissing that he already knew the answer.

 

~~~***~~~

 

November 11th, 2011. T.A.R.D.I.S. interior –

 

“Wow, wow, wow! What the hell?” Dean gaped as he perched halfway inside the box, halfway out, glancing back and forth and watching the dimensions change depending on the angle. It’s not like he hadn’t expected something to be going on with this famous “time machine”, but that didn’t mean he’d been expecting this. Not to mention what lay inside the overly large interior: giant, coral-like sculptures surrounded a platform with the biggest console Dean had ever seen atop, chock-full of gadgets, gismos, and whats-its galore. 

“That’s incredible,” Sam said in a quiet, awed hush, examining the sides of the box as if looking to unravel the secrets trapped within its wood.

“Really? You can handle him being an alien, but the spaceship is the part you’re having trouble with?” Donna snorted, quirking an eyebrow.

“Shut it, Jessica Rabbit,” Dean replied, closing his still open mouth with a determined click, “I bet your reaction wasn’t so collected either.”

“Well, it was better than your fish-out-of-water look, Robin,” Donna snarked back, and Dean frowned, offended. He was definitely Batman.

“All right, all right, no more arguing,” the Doctor called from the console, not even looking up from his task of flipping switches and dialing numbers left and right.

Both Dean and Donna harrumphed but fell silent. After a moment, Dean grumbled and nudged past the amused redhead to shuffle into the box.

“So,” Sam started as he hunched his way into the T.A.R.D.I.S., barely able to fit through the door, “this is a time-and-space machine, right?”

“Yep! T.A.R.D.I.S. stands for Time And Relative Dimensions In Space,” the Doctor announced, grinning proudly.

“That’s fascinating. We’ve met beings who can harness the power of Heaven, or sometimes Hell, to move through time and space. Does your T.A.R.D.I.S. tap into that same power source or-?” Sam was in full-on geek mode now, stepping up beside the Doctor and asking questions in that excited tone of his that came complete with the happy puppy-dog eyes. Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. At least someone’s having fun.

“No, not quite. The T.A.R.D.I.S.’s power comes from…” the Doctor started to explain, but Dean stopped paying attention. He thought they were on a mission to save that Watkins guy, not to chit-chat.

“We gonna do this or not?” he huffed out finally, interrupting the chattering birds that were his brother and Mr. Alien Medic.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” Donna sighed, her eyes glistening with barely concealed laughter. She vaguely reminded Dean of Gabriel, which sent a shiver down his spine. He quickly turned his thoughts back to the situation at hand.

“Don’t worry, I just need to-” the Doctor didn’t bother finishing that sentence, as the moment he pulled down on the lever, the whole world went to shit.

 

~~~***~~~

 

November 11th, 2011. 221B Baker Street, London –

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock!” John called as he left to go to his room upstairs, looking back at his friend slumped in his armchair, intently examining the laptop.

He’d been like that for the past two days now. John was starting to get very concerned; there had been no mention of a case so far, no questions about his death, no real conversations at all besides the minimal daily chatter about tea and how they didn’t have toast. John almost wondered if he should call the demon back to ask about what bringing someone back could do to the person. He dismissed the thought before it could even fully form. He and Sherlock could deal with this without any more interference from that smarmy bastard. They always had before.

As John turned the doorknob, he thought he heard a low mumble from the living room, something that sounded suspiciously like, “Goodnight.”

He smiled to himself. Yes, they would take care of this, together.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Time unknown. T.A.R.D.I.S. interior – 

 

“Did the designer of this thing build it by riding a rollercoaster backward and upside down?!” Dean demanded as he tumbled into the railing and hung onto it with white knuckles, his face an unfortunate shade of green.

“Huh, Dean, I wonder why there isn’t a smoother way to travel through time and space?” Sam groused, although he didn’t look too good himself.

“Sorry, boys! It’ll only be a-” A loud grounding noise cut the Doctor off mid-sentence, and the shaking – thank the Lord, wherever the dick might be – finally stopped.

“Ah, here we are!” the Doctor grinned impishly at the nauseous pair and skipped to the exit, “You coming?”

Dean was about to say something that probably wouldn’t have been considered appropriate for a child’s ears, but before he could, Sam grunted out, “Yeah.”

Staggering a little from the sudden stillness, Dean made his way to the doors and out into the sweet, sweet fresh air and onto stable ground. Beside him, Donna snorted.

“You okay there, Rocket Man?” she asked, looking a little too smug for Dean’s liking.

Dean bit back a reply, focusing instead on not throwing up all over the pavement, which he realized with a start had changed from the black road to grey concrete. In fact, the sky itself had changed color as well, now light grey instead of the customary darkness that typically comes with night.

“Where-?” he began, but the Doctor silenced him with an encompassing wave of his arm.

“Welcome, Winchesters, to London!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duhhh! :o Well, there you go! The next chapter should be up a little sooner since I already have it partially written. In the meantime, I would love to hear your feedback, advice, questions, concerns, and anything else buzzing around in your beautiful, intelligent minds! Have a fabulous day!
> 
> ~ Lily
> 
> P.S. The painting mentioned in this chapter is actually real and was painted by Giacinto Gimignani for anyone who wants to see it. ;) The blog post, on the other hand, is sadly not real. I think we all wish we knew how to summon Crowley (although I guess that's what the Supernatural wiki is for!).


	3. Chapter 2: Will Decide The Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Should be up a little sooner", she said. "I already have it partially written", she said.
> 
> Haha...well, while the latter was true, the former was unfortunately not. Whoops, please forgive me! In my defense, college is being difficult. At long last, though, I got you guys another chapter! So, enjoy and I love you all, my beauties! ~ Lily <3

November 12th, 2011. London, England –

 

“Okay, where to, Doc?” Dean sighed as he breathed out one last nauseous breath and stood up straight.

“Right there,” the Doctor grinned, pointing at a low building in front of them. Golden numbers hung on its inky black front door, spelling out exactly what the taller brother had been expecting.

“221B Baker Street,” he breathed, his grin growing to match the Doctor’s, “Wow. I never thought I’d actually meet Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, isn’t this going to be exciting?” the Doctor cast Sam a cheeky wink. “I’ll warn you now, though, he doesn’t take very kindly to…anyone, really. He’s a very kind man on the inside, however.” The Doctor spun around to face the front door before turning back to the boys to add, “Also, he doesn’t know about the supernatural yet, so please let me explain it to him. Introducing him to aliens was a definite learning experience.” The Doctor gave them all an encouraging thumbs-up, then strode over to the knock on the door.

A kind-looking older woman stuck her head out, her expression crossed between worry and intrigue. When she saw the Doctor’s face, though, she smiled a little and let them inside.

“Sherlock and John are upstairs in the flat, dear,” she said as soon as they had all entered, shutting the door behind them, “No gunshots, boys. We’ve already gotten a notice.” She wagged a finger at a rather sheepish Doctor.

“It was one time,” he muttered in his defense to the Winchesters, before quickly ascending the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Sam, Dean, and Donna followed, Dean keeping one hand on the gun in his waistband.

 

~~~***~~~

November 12th, 2011. 221B Baker Street –

 

The morning sunlight spilled in through the windows of the flat, highlighting an anxiously pacing Sherlock. He had been “hitting the books hard” (to use crude American slang) for the past few days but had found nothing but some useless ancient fairy tales; no proven scientific way to revive someone after being dead a month. It was impossible. All of it was just impossible.

He ran his hands through his hair and absently realized that John was giving him the look. The look that was questioning what the hell was wrong with his flatmate and why he was pacing around like the Devil had possessed him. Sherlock wished he could answer those questions with intelligible answers, but right now he was feeling, for once, confused…and that, well…that confused him greatly.

A knock at the door to their flat resounded through the cozy room, and John sighed, putting aside his paper to let whatever client Sherlock had called in. Thank God, John was starting to feel like Sherlock had really lost his mind. A case would do him good…or at least distract him from carving trenches in the floor with his feet.

John turned the knob and opened the door, coming face-to-face with a surprisingly large and very assorted group of people. Donna and the Doctor were standing before him, along with two men who looked like the result from cross-breeding bodybuilders with heroes from an American western.

“Doctor? Er, how can I help you?” he asked, casting a brief glance back at his flatmate who apparently hadn’t even taken notice of the situation unfolding in the entryway. He added a little hesitantly, “We’re a bit busy at the moment.”

“Yes, I know. That’s what I’m here about,” the Doctor looked at him sympathetically, and John’s blood turned cold. He knew, didn’t he? Of course he knew – he was an alien for Heaven’s sake!

“Which one are you, then? Dumb or dumber?” the shorter of the bodybuilders spoke up, leveling a disappointed glare at him. John rolled his eyes internally at the man’s ridiculously macho attitude. Americans.

“I wouldn’t say that around Sherlock,” he commented wryly, glaring right back.

“You’re John Watson, right?” the second, taller bodybuilder took the Brit by surprise with his genuinely caring tone, his eyes lighting up with something that looked suspiciously like excitement.

“I am,” John responded warily, his perpetual frown increasing ever so slightly.

“It’s good to meet you. I’m Sam Winchester,” the man extended a hand, and John shook it, perplexed. “This is my brother, Dean. We’re here about your…demon situation.”

“We heard you sold your soul for eternal damnation to a crossroads demon,” ‘Dean’ translated into his own insensitive Prat-Speak.

“How did you-?” John huffed before cutting himself off and glancing back again at his still-pacing, still-unresponsive friend. “Sorry, can we continue this conversation somewhere else?”

The Doctor stopped John’s forward motion with a hand, his face radiating sorrow and kindness, “We think that Sherlock should hear about this, too. This directly involves him.”

John was very much opposed to revealing anything of what he had been up to in the last month to Sherlock, but the Doctor and these strange Americans weren’t backing down any time soon. As for Donna, well, she was going to be no help, having been silent throughout the exchange and only staring at him with a mixture of her usual brusque sarcasm and compassion. This was just…wonderful.

“Fine,” he sighed after a moment, coming to the conclusion that he had no real choice in the matter. He stepped aside so they could all filter in. “Come in. Do you want tea?”

“Leaves in water, no thanks,” Dean dismissed, while his brother piped up with an excited, “Yes!” Dean shot him a look.

“We’d love some tea, thanks,” Donna spoke up, grinning at John. He nodded before hastily disappearing into the flat’s kitchen to get the water boiling. As he poured the water into the kettle, he took a deep breath, steading himself for the conversation (argument) to come. After a long moment of peace which was not strictly necessary since he was already done pouring the water, he returned to the living room to find Sherlock finally stopped and standing still.

“What’s this? John, I thought I asked not to be disturbed,” Sherlock demanded, eyeing their visitors with distrust and annoyance, “Especially by Americans.” Of course, he had asked no such thing as his sole words over the days since his revival could be counted on John’s fingers. John didn’t mention this, though.

“You remember the Doctor, right, Sherlock?” John came up to stand beside his friend, wondering briefly what Sherlock was analyzing about the newcomers.

“Well, of course, but I don’t understand why he’s here, right now. You didn’t write in about a case,” Sherlock pointed out to the Doctor, his irate attitude even more pronounced than usual.

John couldn’t help but be a little disturbed by how resistant Sherlock was even to the idea of a possible case. Had his resurrection screwed up his head that badly? John should have known that making a deal with a demon was an idiotic plan…especially since Sherlock was very stubborn that everything had to be logical. John should have known he would struggle with the concept of coming back to life – John himself was, and he wasn’t anywhere near as logic-oriented as Sherlock. John mentally kicked himself for not realizing what was so obviously wrong with his friend sooner, but there was no time to deal with this issue now, not when an alien and his friends were about to expose his recent unnatural affairs.

“Sherlock, it’s good to see you, but I’m afraid this isn’t about you helping me. Quite the opposite, in fact,” the Doctor declared, giving the detective a kind, sad smile.

Sherlock’s frown deepened, “Is that why you brought hunters?”

“Hold up, I thought you said he didn’t know anything about the supernatural!” Dean pointed an accusing finger at the Doctor, his face a mask of confusion and irritation.

“I-” the Doctor began, but Sherlock cut him off.

“The supernatural?” he scoffed, “Don’t try to play games with me. You two are obviously hunters, given the gunpowder residue on your fingers. Not military grade, so you must have some other way of using a gun often. Thus, hunting. No doubt you learned the sport by watching your father, an upright soldier man if your postures say anything. He was extra manly as well to overcompensate for the loss of your mother. I’d say that event occurred when you were old enough to develop memories, Short One, but not when Tall One could. There’s a lot of tension there, especially since Short One seems to think it is his job to always take care of Tall One. I’d say Tall One doesn’t like that very much. That’s all not to mention the intense emotional baggage both of you carry based on the haunted looks in your eyes – I’m assuming Tall One did something very harmful to himself and your relationship. Drugs, most likely. His addiction had unwanted outcomes, but currently that’s not your biggest issue. The drug issue has been boxed away, and you’ve both been pretending it doesn’t exist. Right now, instead you are both upset about something else, something larg-”

Dean, who had been staring at Sherlock with the typical reaction to his prying eyes (mortified anger tinged with fear), finally cut the detective off with a biting, “Okay, Mr. Observationalist, try this one on for size. Your best friend decided to bring you back to life by selling his immortal soul to a demon.” John inhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his face and hoping he could restrain himself from punching the Winchester for his bluntness.

“Dean!” Sam winced, his awe-filled expression sliding off like a mudslide to be replaced by reprimand.

“There were about a thousand different ways you could have said that, Dean,” Donna added, glaring.

Dean at least had the dignity to look slightly apologetic, shrugging and slinking a step backward.

“Look, Sherlock, that’s why we’re here,” the Doctor said, sighing, “Don’t worry, we’re going to fix this whole situation and find a way for both you and John to keep your souls intact and out of Hell.”

Sherlock stood stock still and silent, an unmoved statue. John waited, his heart heavy with dread, for the inevitable shouts of disbelief, the breaking of some furniture (probably), and the disappointment to come. He waited, and he waited, and he waited…but nothing was happening.

Doing his best to hide his internal regret and terror, John looked up at Sherlock to see that the man had apparently shut down. His eyes were glazed over, and his mouth was slightly agape, but no sound, no reaction, came out. John considered breaking him out of his trance, but a loud whistle made the choice for him, scaring everyone in the room with its sudden screaming. John swore he saw both of the Americans jump a little upon hearing the sound, and he bustled off to the kitchen with the tiniest of smiles on his face.

As he fixed cuppas for everyone, he could hear muffled voices conversing in the entry hall, with someone whispering something about “having some compassion”. He sighed heavily as he added milk to one of the cups. At least one of the Winchesters was sticking up for him.

Marching back into the living room with five cuppas (one made for Sherlock even if he hadn’t asked for it), John assessed the situation. The brothers were stepping back in from the entry hall, the Doctor and Donna were muttering to each other in low tones with their backs to John, and Sherlock was still standing paralyzed in the center of the room. Hesitantly, John walked up to his side.

“Sherlock?” he asked tentatively, holding out one of the cups as he set the others aside. The detective did not respond.

“Sherlock? Snap out of it,” he said a little louder, a little more firmly. He snapped a finger in front of his friend’s face, but there was again no response. John rolled his eyes in exasperation and clapped his hands in front of Sherlock’s face.

The startled detective looked down at a partially relieved John, blinking.

“What?”

“You’ve been spaced out for the past minute or so,” John explained, handing him his tea.

“I’ve been…ah, you’re referring to the period of time that I have been in my mind palace,” Sherlock clarified.

“Yes. Now, what could you have possibly been mulling over so deeply?” Of course, John knew exactly what his friend had been thinking about so intensely. But he needed to hear him say it.

“Demons,” Sherlock mused, and John blinked. That had not been the expected answer.

“Demons?” he prompted, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, “I mean, I understand that this is a new concept for you, but that’s really what you took away from all of that?” He gestured with a vague hand at the Doctor, Donna, and the Winchesters, who had turned back around to face the situation at hand, opting (thankfully) to remain silent…although John knew the stubborn “Short One” wouldn’t last long.

“I suspected your involvement in my apparent resurrection the entire time, John,” Sherlock snorted, as if it had been obvious, “I didn’t know how you managed it, but since you were there to dig me up, I figured you had to have known somehow. I still don’t understand how you did it, though. I mean, it obviously wasn’t actual demons, so I’m trying to decipher what our friend here is truly trying to convey.”

John took a deep breath (partially out of relief, partially trying to prepare himself for what he was about to do), closed his eyes briefly, and then reopened them and gave Sherlock the most patient look he could muster.

“Sherlock,” he started slowly, keeping eye contact to make sure the detective knew he wasn’t lying, “He means actual demons.”

“Well, that’s not possible,” Sherlock sniffed, his tone hardening, “Demons don’t exist. There must be a logical ans-”

“I know this is insane, but you believed in aliens after a bit of convincing.” John cringed inwardly, remembering how long that had taken. “What’s the supernatural compared to that?”

“Aliens make sense. Of course we’re not alone in the universe, duh,” Sherlock was pacing now, his hands wildly waving, his expression highly agitated, “Supernatural things, on the other hand, that’s all fiction. Monsters are fairy tales, stories told to kids to keep them in their beds. Now, let’s stop this foolish talk and get down to what you really did, shall we?”

“Sherlock, we understand this may be hard for you to digest, but it’s the truth,” the Doctor spoke in a calm tone, reaching out a reassuring hand. Sherlock flinched away, glaring at the gathered guests as if they were intruders.

“So, what? You are ‘hunters of the supernatural’ or something?” he asked, his words spoken defiantly as if he thought he had surely caught them out on their act.

Sam sighed and stepped forward, flashing a small, quelling glance at his brother, “Actually, yes. Dean and I, we hunt all the things that go bump in the night. Wendigos, shapeshifters…demons. You name it, we’ve hunted it.”

“No,” Sherlock’s face was steely, his eyes like coal, “That’s not possible.”

“We’re here to help you, but to do that, you’ve gotta believe us,” Dean said, his rough voice, for once in the admittedly short time John had known him, taking on a more understanding tone.

Sherlock shook his head fervently, his eyes flitting from face to face as if looking for someone to burst out laughing and explain this was all some big prank. But it wasn’t, and John desperately hoped Sherlock could wrap his head around that. If not…well, this wasn’t going to end well.

“Sherlock…” John sighed, unsure of how to make his friend believe what he was being told. Sherlock was stubborn, but he wasn’t impossible. He couldn’t be. There had to be a way to get that giant brain of his to understand.

“You need to believe me. Would I ever lie to you?” John finally said.

“Of course not, but you might be lying to yourself,” Sherlock countered, reminding John that Sherlock could out-logic himself out of any situation, even one that was very much untouchable by the normal standards of logic.

“Sherlock, believe me. No one here is lying – not to themselves, not to you. This is the truth, whether you accept it or not. Please, just trust me,” John replied, hoping beyond hope his word alone would be enough to make Sherlock see reason. Or at least Reason’s distant cousin, Common Sense. If a room full of people is telling you something, often times that thing turns out to be true.

Sherlock was frozen, his mind likely racing about a mile a minute. His mouth opened, closed, opened again while he lifted a finger like he was going to give a lecture, then closed one final time as he lowered the lecturing finger. After a long pause of silence in which all eyes rested on Sherlock, and Sherlock’s eyes rested anywhere else, he spoke, “I do not claim to believe this insanity, but I will play along until I find out the real truth.”

There was a chorus of sighs and grumbles around the room, but this was more than John had been expected. The Doctor seemed to think the same, brightening up with Sherlock’s words, his grin returning.

“Multe bene!” he chirped, “So, onto our solution for the problem – as you now know, these two Americans are supernatural hunters and very good ones, if you ask me. We’ve helped each other in a scram before, so trust me, you can trust them.”

“As if I would ever trust anyone,” Sherlock commented wryly, but the Doctor ignored him and instead gestured at the Americans, vaguely waving them forward. After a moment, Sam seemed to get it.

“Oh! Right. I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean,” Sam outstretched a hand in greeting to Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t move, and the hunter awkwardly retracted the proffered olive branch.

“We’re happy to help,” Dean grunted, his lips pursed in a tiny frown.

“Lovely! Now, that the introductions are out of the way-” the Doctor began, but Dean cut him off with a hand.

“So, John, did ya catch the name of the demon you dealed with?” he asked, his face betraying no sympathy or emotion besides calm determination. Well, all right, then. Two could play at that game, especially if the second was a Brit.

“It’s actually ‘dealt’,” his brother corrected a little sheepishly, before John had the chance.

Dean flashed him a glance that spoke volumes – probably a pentalogy’s worth – of brotherly “ughhh, shut up”. Then, he turned back to John with a roll of his eyes, not even dignifying his brother with a response.

“Can you tell me the name of the demon you dealt with?” he repeated, his frown having increased almost tenfold.

“Er…something to do with birds, I think,” John responded. To be honest, he’d been a little busy worrying about his friend’s safety to really digest the name of the demon. He remembered the title, though; “King of Hell” was a bit hard to forget.

“He said he was the King of Hell,” John relayed. The twin looks of frustration from the Winchesters immediately sent a shiver down his spine. This was not going to be easy. But when was anything in their lives?

“That son of a bitch!” Dean growled.

“You know him?” John asked.

“Yeah, we’re besties.” Dean had used a sarcastic tone, but for a moment, John wasn’t actually sure if he meant it or not. It turned out that his doubts were warranted.

“We’ve had a truce with him recently, but he’s been on our shit list for…what? Two or three years?” Sam turned to his brother, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. Ever since the Colt and Lucifer,” his brother replied, causing the entire room to raise an eyebrow themselves.

“Pardon?” Donna asked, her frown developing mini-frowns, “Did you say Lucifer?”

“Yeah, we’ve dealt with crazier crap than whackjob demons,” Dean said, his mouth twisting into a wry smile, “Lucifer, fake God, Death with a capital ‘D’, Leviathans…the shit show never ends.”

“Cute,” Sherlock said, prompting a withering look from Dean.

“Yeah, you know what I think is cute, buddy?” Dean never got to finish that statement because his brother dragged him back, muttering something in his ear. Dean seemed to calm down, but his hunched shoulders and deadly glare didn’t relax.

“Anyway,” the Doctor interrupted diplomatically, “You two said you have an alliance with Crowley? Is it possible we could negotiate for John’s soul back?”

Those words, combined with the solemn tone they were spoken in, made John shiver. When you didn’t think about your actions in logical terms, it made sense. A soul for a soul, a fair price. But when you remembered it was your soul, well, your perspective on the whole affair had a tendency to dip into “holy shit, what have I done?!” territory.

“It’s possible, but I’m not sure. We’re on shaky ground with him as it is, and he never lets go of a deal. It’s worth a shot, though, as long as we have something to bargain with,” Sam explained, glancing around as if the room contained something powerful enough to trade for a soul.

“We could do the usual Devil’s Trap trade,” Dean supplied.

Sam nodded, “Good idea. Dean, put together a summoning spell, and I’ll get a Devil’s Trap ready. Everyone else, er…”

“Come up with a Plan B?” Donna suggested.

“A Plan B?” Dean scoffed, then frowned as if considering something, “Sam, why don’t we ever come up with a Plan B?”

Sam shrugged and grabbed a spray paint can from his jacket pocket, reaching up to start spraying the ceiling.

“I swear, this apartment will never be free of spray paint,” John commented, eyeing the yellow smiley face on the wall with mild annoyance.

With that, they split up to accomplish their assorted tasks. Unfortunately, ten minutes passed with little to no progress on the Plan B front. Sam and Dean finished their preparations for Crowley’s arrival, but John’s group was left with little more than a half-hearted “Kill him? Maybe the deal will disappear without him” from Donna (to which John told them about the terms of his agreement). It seemed the only suitable Plan B was to try Plan A, and if that didn’t work out…well…

John was entirely screwed.

~~~***~~~

It took a bit for Dean to scrounge up all the necessary supplies for Crowley’s summoning spell from his backpack of goods from Baby and their hosts’ kitchen. He had to say, their fridge made him wonder if he and Sam were dealing with some kind of vampire or witch instead of a bunch of British pricks. Who even experiments on eyeballs anyway? Creeepy.

“All right,” he began as their motley little crew reconvened, “So, whatcha guys got?”

“Er, squat,” the Doctor said, his voice a tad too cheerful given the situation, “Let’s hope this works.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” Sam shrugged, chucking the now-empty spray can to the side – to the indignant glare of John – and lighting a match.

“Everybody ready?” Dean asked, glancing around at the various faces around him. Sherlock was like a stone, taking in everything he was seeing with his dickishly observant eyes. John looked nervous and apprehensive but seemed to be masking it all under a look of annoyance; Dean could dig that. The Doctor looked unreasonably excited, as usual, and Donna just looked nonchalant, her arms crossed and her face not revealing anything. Sam looked had a determined expression fixed onto his face, one which Dean figured he probably was mirroring. The look of a hunter.

What a bunch of weirdos they were.

“Let’s get this show on the road, then,” Sam said, dropping the flaming match into the mixture Dean had prepared. One satisfying poof of smoke and flames later, they stood face-to-face with a suited demonic dick.

“Hello, boys,” he grinned, “Miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh~ Crowley is about to meet the SuperWhoLock team! Trouble is sure to ensue. >:D
> 
> I know, I know, I'm untrustworthy (I'm so sorry), but I really will be posting the next chappie very soon (if all goes as planned, next Sunday to celebrate NO MORE SCHOOL!). Until then, live long and prosper!
> 
> P.S. I've been reading a story called "Good Omens" by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (anyone else excited for the adaptation??), and it is SO good! Just wanted to recommend that to anyone who enjoys this story and let you know that any change in writing style is probably due to a rather pleasant British curse cast on me from reading that book.


	4. Chapter 3: Of Who Is Saved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these times, for sure, I will be on time with my next update...also, sorry about the swearing in this chapter! Dean is such a pottymouth!
> 
> Anyway, I'm sure you're all anxious to finally get to read this next chappie, so here it is (only a TINY bit late ;D)!
> 
> Love you all and enjoy, my beauties! ~ Lily <3

“Crowley,” Dean gruffly stated, “It’s far too soon to see you again.” Dean’s face betrayed no emotion to the common eye, but Sam had his own detective skills when it came to his brother. The little twitch of the eyelid, the folding of the arms across his chest, the shift in posture. Dean was ticked off, not an unusual occurrence when Crowley was involved.

“Well, someone’s feeling snippy today. Tell me, what is it I’ve done wrong other than saving your life last we met?” Crowley’s eyes, deceptively human-looking, scanned the room, landing quickly on their surrounding posse and acknowledging their presence only with a tiny, coy smile. His eyes flicked back to Dean.

“From your own crazy demon employee!” Dean replied indignantly. As he watched the derailment of the conversation unfold in glorious slow motion, Sam decided to steer it back on track by distracting the children.

“Crowley, we know you took John Watson’s soul in exchange for Sherlock’s. We’re wondering if you can drop that deal.”

“Negate a deal? Boys, I don’t know if you understand, but our truce only extends to you defeating the Leviathans. I am not doing any favors for you, especially of the business-destroying kind. What sort of example would I be to my demons if I broke off deals because the Winchesters said ‘pretty please’?” Crowley rolled his eyes and continued, “Now, if that’s all-”

“Well, you’re not going to have a business if you can’t go back home to Hell. We’re not letting you out until you release John from his deal,” Dean said, a smug grin creeping its way onto his face, “You’ll have to say ‘pretty please’.”

Crowley breathed a long-suffering sigh, before redirecting his attention toward John and the others.

“So, Sherly, do you remember your time in Hell? I sure do. Having a pet detective around was very…amusing,” Crowley smirked. Sam turned to look at Sherlock, mouth opening a little with the realization that, yeah, this probably hadn’t been a picnic for him either. Who knew how long he had been down there, how many years it had been with nothing but constant torture and/or flames to keep him company. Sam couldn’t help feeling sympathetic, especially considering- no. No, he wouldn’t think about any of that, not right now. They had a job to do. He was fine. He had to be fine.

“I was never in Hell,” Sherlock obstinately replied, his face hard and expressionless.

“You have amnesia or something? Shame. It was quite a memorable party,” Crowley’s teeth gleamed in the muffled light from the draped windows as his lips stretched apart in a twisted smile.

“Crowley,” Dean growled, causing the demon to focus his attention back on the angry Winchester (Crowley knew better than to underestimate an upset member of that family, which was part of what had helped him survive as long as he had), “Give us what we want, or you’re going to spend the rest of eternity in here.”

“And you think my demons won’t figure it out and come for me?” Crowley snorted.

“Because that’s worked well in the past,” Sam retaliated. Crowley’s face contorted into a frown, but he shrugged and sat criss-cross-apple-sauce on the wood floor.

“No can do, boys, sorry.”

“This is useless!” Dean huffed, stomping out of the room. Sam followed quickly after him before his brother did anything stupid (or more stupid than talking down to the King of Hell, anyway), muttering a brief “Don’t let him out of the trap” before disappearing into the foyer after Dean.

~~~***~~~

Crowley leered at the remaining people in the room, but Donna just grinned playfully right back.

“I like your sense of humor,” she said to the Doctor’s astonished, “Donna!” What? It was true. Crowley was certainly not what she had expected when the Winchester brothers had talked about the Current Plan Man of the Down Under (no, not Australia). Crowley was a lot less serious and a lot more fun.

“What? It’s true!” and she said as much, spreading her arms out defensively.

“Don’t mind her,” the Doctor attempted to mutter to Sherlock and John, but she cut him off, “So, Crowley, what’s it like being the King of Hell?”

“Balmy,” came the sarcastic reply. Typical demon. Then Donna paused, because what? This was her first experience with a demon (wittingly, at least – she was starting to feel a bit paranoid), so the fact that statement had made any sense to her was just a signal she had been spending altogether too much time in this crazy monster-filled life style. Or too little time to begin with. Hard to tell, really.

“I actually have a question about that,” the Doctor was suddenly all intrigued eyes and excited, porcupine hair, “How did you take up the mantle, so to speak, from Satan? What caused him to relinquish the throne? In the future, of course, I defeated him-” story for another time, she knew, but that certainly sounded like an interesting tale, “-but I am now starting to suspect we may be referring to very different Satans.”

“Time traveler, eh?” Crowley’s eyes narrowed, and he looked the Doctor up and down, scrutinizing him like a cell under a microscope, “Are you…the Doctor, by any chance?”

“Yes, I am! Have we met?” the Doctor tilted his head. Time travel could often get confusing like that, making you unsure whether you’d met a person as this you or a future you.

“No, not properly. Crowley, King of Hell. Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Crowley grinned, standing and stretching out a hand that the Doctor politely declined to shake, probably because of demon cooties in Donna’s opinion. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you, Doctor. You’re quite popular in Hell.”

“So, about Satan…?” the Doctor asked, shifting uncomfortably and quickly changing the subject.

“I call him ‘Lucifer’. And let’s just say, he had to submit his resignation due to a little vacation he is currently taking in a very special pit of God’s design,” Crowley bowed theatrically, “Thanks to little ol’ me…and those idiot Winchesters.” He added the last part in a significantly more annoyed tone of voice.

“Fascinating! And had he been on this planet all along?” the Doctor queried, fully invested now on this very unorthodox conversation.

“Of course not. He only got out of his Cage for a brief spa visit upstairs, but we quickly got that handled. Only took a few years or so to avert the whole Apocalypse business. Then, once Mr. Killjoy was safely stowed, I took the opportunity to give Hell the leadership they so desperately needed, being the very good demonic businessman I am. And that’s where we are now, plus a few problems with souls and Godstiel.” As much as Donna would like to hear about that story, the Doctor continued his mini-Inquisition before she could ask.

“And your alliance with the Winchesters?”

“Merely an agreement to stay out of each other’s way until this Leviathan business is under control again. A situation, by the way, you can thank Dean’s little boy-toy for, may God finally put to rest his non-existent soul,” Crowley rolled his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Dean’s wha-?” Donna began, eyebrows shooting up into her hair like fast-growing bamboo shoots, because she had been getting some serious machismo-y straight vibes from Dean, but she was cut off by a sudden shudder. It felt like an earthquake; papers fluttered about like agitated birds, and cups resting on the desk tipped over, spilling hot, sweet liquid all over the floor. The ceiling itself cracked and split, the wood tearing and rending around the area of the fire-engine red symbol. One of the faults cut through the power of the protective Devil’s Trap, and with a parting smirk and wave, Crowley disappeared. The shaking finally stopped, papers coming to rest on the slick floor. Seconds later, Dean and Sam rushed back in, their eyes immediately landing on the spot where Crowley had stood.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean cursed.

~~~***~~~

“Great! Now what’re we supposed to do?” Dean huffed, pacing around and around the room like a demented Merry-Go-Round and glaring at anyone and anything that got in his way. John was frowning intensely – mostly at the mess of the ceiling and floor, the Doctor noticed. Sherlock just looked thoughtful (when didn’t he?) and had kept alarmingly silent throughout the exchange with Crowley. Sam looked frustrated, while Donna’s mouth was still agape in the beginning ‘O’ of “Oh shit”.

The Doctor cleared his throat, filing away the fact that Crowley apparently had very powerful back-up on hand for later, and spoke up with as much hope and enthusiasm impressed upon his voice as he could manage, “Well, are there any other methods for stopping demon deals?”

“None that we’ve found,” Sam informed them, his face muddled somewhere between looking like a contemplative moose and a sad puppy dog as he plopped down on the couch, staring at his brother’s cycling rotation.

“Hmm…” the Doctor frowned, thinking through all of the possibilities in this situation. They couldn’t do anything to stop the Hellhounds – already been over that one in their little planning session, in which John explained the ramifications on Sherlock’s health if anything were to happen to the deal. Their only man on the inside had turned out to be very good at escaping outside. What did they have left, besides, as Dean had put it, “a great, big pile of nada”? Gears turned, synapses flashed, hearts beat, memories were analyzed until…the Doctor had a horribly stupid, possibly timeline-ending idea.

That just might work.

~~~***~~~

Dean was fully and completely done with Crowley, demons, deals, stupid British detectives…all of it. He just wanted this to be over and done with so that they could get back to averting yet another Apocalypse. Unfortunately, their sole plan had just cracked open like a fragile egg, and he was left here, in the gloopy yolk of what had once been a nice apartment, pacing over soaked papers and spilled tea as he tried to think of something, anything, to get them out of this mess and back home with two completely-not-in-Hell souls left in their wake.

“I may have a plan.”

The declaration caught Dean off-guard; he turned so fast for a moment he thought he’d gotten whiplash. Facing the Doctor, staring into eyes that betrayed the mile-a-minute pace their owner’s mind was going at, a tiny burst of hope silenced the questions blooming on his tongue. Maybe, just maybe, this clever alien could find them a way out of this situation. A tiny voice whispered treacherously, What if he could fix your Leviathan situation as well? The Doctor had already said, though, that he couldn’t help with anything else. So, shut up, Stupid Inner Voice or whatever.

“What is it?” John asked, tensing as he rose from the floor he had been toweling.

“Well, this is going to require a few…rules first,” the Doctor sighed, wiping his face with a twitchy hand as he seemed to consider something, “One: when I do what I am going to do, I will have to, er, take that thing away again after it has done what it’s going to do. You cannot object to this, as much as you may want to, because if you do…I don’t know the damage it would cause to this timeline, which is already so fragile as it is.”

“What?!” Dean demanded, confused as all hell. What was the Doctor talking about? What “thing” was he going to take away? And what did this have to do with John’s lil’ demon problem?

The Doctor simply steamrolled over his confusion, however, by ignoring the Winchester completely. Instead, he began muttering to himself, pacing about just like Dean had a minute earlier. “Can this really work? Let’s see, ah yes, that should remain relatively the same. Yes, and that should be all right. We’ll have to arrange for that to happen, but it’s possible we can actually do more good than…no, no, wait, that would just cause more problems there. We’ll have to keep that the same, as horrible as it may be. Now, what about…yes, yes, I think this can work actually! We’ll just have to make sure that happens, and we should be set. Aside from all the business with them, but hopefully they’ll have the sense to stick out of this. If nothing else, he’ll still be safe, so no worries there. Although that would be rather unfortunate…but not impossible to fix. Memory wiping is always an option, if it comes down to tha-”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” John was the one who finally interrupted the Doctor’s stream of babbled words, looking even more irritated than he had before – and that was saying something.

“All right, all right, so this is going to sound like an insane plan. Just…can anyone tell me what another way for people to survive a demon deal that can’t be broken is?” the Doctor asked cryptically. Dean growled, but Sam spoke up before the eldest Winchester could go off on a rant about how everyone just had to speak in riddles when explaining solutions to life-and-death situations.

“Saving the person before they die!” Sam chirped, the lightbulb’s shine practically glowing in his eyes, “You have a time machine! You can go back in time and save Sherlock.”

The Doctor frowned apologetically, “No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. I already tried that, but Sherlock’s death is a fixed point in time. But you’re getting closer!” The Doctor had stopped pacing, and his manic grin had returned.

“You see, we may not be able to stop Sherlock from dying, but I can stop John from making the deal-” the Doctor was cut off abruptly by John.

“Are you saying you want me not to save Sherlock? That is not-” John burst out, his complexion growing flushed with anger.

“No, no, no!” the Doctor squawked, waving his hands in surrender, “Trust me, everyone will survive with this plan…probably. If all goes well. Or the universe could end, but we’re going to work against that alternative.” Dean gaped, torn between slapping the man- person- alien, whatever and not doing that because it would only prolong the wait until the Doctor finally explained what the hell he was talking about.

“Care to elaborate?” Sherlock remarked dryly, startling Dean who had forgotten he was even there.

“All right, so I may know where, er, Castiel is.”

As explanations go, this one was lacking a little in the, oh I don’t know, everything department for Dean.

“What?” he snapped, his mind barely registering the true meaning of what the Doctor had just said through the white noise that was suddenly flooding his mind.

“I know where-”

“No, I heard you. Can you please explain what you mean by that? Castiel is dead,” Dean gritted the last part out between clenched teeth, glaring the alien down and waiting for the incoming apology, probably something properly British and simultaneously timey-wimey-weird like, “Oh, terribly sorry, I forgot he died at this point in the timeline! My bad.”

What came out of the Doctor’s mouth instead surprised Dean even more than any crackpot time bullshit the Doctor could have spewed at that moment.

“He’s not. Well, er, at least I’m relatively confident he’s not. He’ll be alive in a few months, at the very least,” the Doctor rambled, fixing his eyes on Dean. It reminded Dean of the way Cas used to look at him. The Doctor’s chocolate brown eyes stared through him like he could see Dean’s soul and his thoughts, rather than just the typical surface stuff all the “normal” people looked at.

“How do you know that?” Sam asked, abruptly reminding Dean that he and the Doctor weren’t alone.

“Dean, er, the other Dean I met, reminisced on some memories when I was with him, and it just so happened that one of those pieces of the past was the time he found Castiel without his memory in Colorado after the Purgatory incident,” the Doctor told them, apparently unfazed by all of the completely batshit crazy things he had just said.

“Hold up, Cas has amnesia or somethin’?” Dean asked. It wasn’t like he cared; Cas had betrayed them. End of story. Period.

So why did he still care?

“Who is ‘Castiel’?” John interjected, but no one payed him any attention.

“As far as I know, yes. He has no memory of his identity, and I’m fairly certain he’s living under an assumed name. So, we find him, spark his memory, and then, well, you once said he raised both you and Sam from Hell.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Sam affirmed with a nod. Which was good, because Dean sure as hell wasn’t in any state to think rationally at the moment.

“Well then, here’s the plan: we go back in time and bring Sherlock back to life before John makes the deal,” the Doctor explained, his grin doubling (if that was possible).

“Wait, you want Cas to do wha-?!” Dean began to demand angrily, the claxons in his head going off as all the puzzle pieces of the Doctor’s plan fell into place to create a horrible picture. Fortunately for the Doctor, Sam interrupted.

“Won’t that be the same as saving Sherlock before he dies? I thought that was locked in,” Sam noticed, shooting Dean a ‘shut up and let me get the full story here’ look. Dean relented, but that didn’t stop him from frowning at Sam’s attempted diplomacy. This was Cas they were talking about here. 

“Not quite. Sherlock has to die, but he doesn’t have to stay dead. Plus, how he comes back to life isn’t fixed. I believe this can work!”

“Ohh. Wow.” Sam looked like the Doctor had just revealed the secrets of the universe to him, but Dean was having none of it. He wasn’t going to accept that Cas had come back to life just like that, and that Dean was only finding out about it now. Who cares if the dude couldn’t remember anything? If Cas was really back, the universe would have probably pulled them together again by now, as it always seemed to.

Not to mention the fact that Dean wasn’t going to let the Doc and Co. use Cas to fetch the bastard detective’s soul out of infernal damnation. That was just not gonna happen. Dean managed to convince himself that his reluctance was only because he didn’t trust the angel not to betray them again. And if he tried really hard, he could even convince himself that this was the same reason his stomach had been doing flips and other highly inappropriate gymnastics throughout this conversation.

“I don’t understand. What are you all talking about?” John broke in again, this time with a little more success. The Doctor, his face flushed with enthusiasm, turned to the Brit and began explaining the concept of angels and resurrection to a stunned John and a critical Sherlock. Dean tuned them out and took the opportunity to pull Sam to the side. His brother had to realize how stupidly idiotic this plan was. Right?

“Dean, I don’t know. This might be our only chance at saving Sherlock. Not to mention, well, we would get Cas back.”

The look of guilt and protectiveness (as if Dean was some glass vase ready to break at even the tiniest mention of the angel) on Sam’s face made Dean sick to his stomach. He shouldn’t have let his guard down, let his emotions become so easily readable. Now, the brother he was supposed to be protecting was trying to protect him. Fucking fantastic. Like today needed any more reminders of how utterly out of his depth Dean was, his brother, the one who had once escaped his family and their destiny to go to college, had become the mother hen in their new improvised family.

Irony is a bitch.

“Yeah, but are you forgetting what happened last time we saw him?” Dean pointed out, his voice defensively slipping into an accusatory tone, “Not to mention, what if we can’t get him to regain his memory?” What if he never remembers us? What if he escapes The Life? What if he just goes on living peacefully in Colorado or whatever bullshit state he’s in, away from his stupid family (his stupid angelic family, Dean’s brain hastily corrected) and all of the stupid mistakes he’s made?

“I’m not saying I forgive him yet, Dean. I’m just saying…he’s still Cas. And he deserves a second chance, just like I got after the Apocalypse.”

“The Apocalypse wasn’t your-”

“We both know full well that it was. Dean, I get it, I really do. I feel the same way. But…we’ve spent months thinking he was dead. We mourned him. And it wasn’t like he didn’t try to do the right thing in the end by putting all those souls back in Purgatory,” Sam took a moment to stare imploringly at Dean with his stupid puppy-dog face. “The least we can do is remind him of who he truly is before he accidentally blows someone up with his powers or outlives everyone in his neighborhood or something.” Sam always knew how to touch upon the logical bits that Dean hadn’t thought about yet, the bitch.

Fine, Dean thought, Just so that he doesn’t kill anybody. He purposefully ignored the part of his mind that hissed about how it would also be good to see his fri- former friend again. Cas had betrayed them, and Dean didn’t know if there was any coming back from it this time. Even still, some small part of him…no. Focus. No time for emotions, not right now.

“Fine,” Dean voiced, “But what about the Doctor’s plan with the whole Hell thing? Are we really going to trust Cas to get Sherlock’s soul back, especially after what happened last time?”

Sam winced, and a flash of guilt shot through Dean. He shouldn’t have brought it up, but the question had to be asked. Or, more accurately, the Doctor’s plan had to be questioned, because Dean didn’t like it one bit.

“Do we really have a choice?” Sam countered.

Dean opened his mouth to say, “Of course we do”, but then shut it again because just like their current Leviathan situation, this case seemed to be hitting a dead-end. Besides getting the cooperation of the demon who had made the deal or the one who controlled all of the crossroad deals (both of which happened to be the same, wholly uncooperative King of Hell), the Winchesters hadn’t found any other way of breaking a deal without killing any of the participants. Hypothetically, they could kill Crowley, but Dean didn’t want anything to do with the demon for a long, long time. Not only was he intensely annoying, Crowley now knew what they were after, so that ruled out surprise attacks. Plus, they sort of needed their truce to prevent the legions of Hell from coming after them (because that was just what they needed right now), and he didn’t think it would last if they summoned Crowley again and threatened his life/killed him. On top of that all, who knew what tricks the demon had up his sleeve. So, no killing the wretched demon – at least, no today.

Angelic rescue via Cas really was the only plan they had. No other angels could do it, since the Winchesters hadn’t had any contact with Heaven since the incident in the lab with Raphael. Neither of the Winchesters were very eager to try to reconnect with the spirits in the sky, especially since many of them would be just jazzed to have a chance to murder the Winchesters, for one reason or another (most of those reasons centering around the averted Apocalypse*).

There was one more thing to consider: could Cas actually do it? Last time it had fully worked, the siege on Hell had taken a whole bunch of angels and four months to succeed. On the other hand, the Cage affair had been much faster and much less angel-heavy, and although Cas had forgotten the important bit, it had been the Cage. That couldn’t have made it any easier. There was a possibility Cas could do this on his own. A really, really slim possibility, but then again, everything the Winchesters did had a super-small finitely probable air about it.

“Whatever. Let’s just get this over with, then,” Dean finally grunted, knowing that he was going to live to regret this. Or die. Either way.

*Which, unbeknownst to the Winchesters, was the second of its kind. The heroes from that story had been entirely ignored by Heaven as well, although they were in a slightly more favorable situation. That is, sipping wine while laughing among towering stacks of books and ancient manuscripts that were predated by the beings beside them. All of this was occurring only about 2 miles away from the flat on Baker Street, as it happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking around and bearing with me even through all my updating troubles! To repay you all, my next chapter will be posted next Friday. I shall hastily tippy-type it out in between eating ice cream from my birthday, riding rollercoasters, and playing D&D. ;)
> 
> If you feel like it, please leave constructive criticism, compliments, book recommendations, or any other type of comment! I know everyone says this, but it's true: your comments inspire me to keep writing. They remind me part of the reason why I write - so that I can share my little brain-babies with all of you and hopefully amuse/make you feelsy like so many fanfictions and stories have done for me before! The other part of my reason is that I just love creating time-travel stories. :P
> 
> P.S. Someone should probably take the Internet away from me because I will never get sleep if I keep reading all of the Aziraphale x Crowley fanfictions in the middle of the night like I keep doing. You can blame those fics for why I put a little reference to Good Omens at the end of this chapter.
> 
> Love you all, my beautiful beauties, and have a lovely dawn, dusk, or second breakfast! ~ Lily <3


	5. Chapter 4: And Who Dies in Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry about not posting this on Friday like I said I would. But hey, I’m only a few days late. And as a reward for all your patience, this chapter is more than 5,000 words long! Yay!
> 
> Interesting Side Note I Wanted To Share: The chapter titles, when combined together, form a little poem I created for this fanfiction. It's definitely not the best, but I hope you guys enjoy it! I also hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Without further adieu, I introduce to you ~

It took quite a bit to pile the Winchesters and Donna into the T.A.R.D.I.S. – and even longer to convince the 221B Baker Street folks that they should stay behind (“Just this once!”) – but eventually the Doctor had everything sorted and ready to begin their mission to find the amnesiac angel.

“So, where can we find Cas, Doc?” Dean grunted as the Doctor circled the control console, wondering the same thing.

When Dean had told him the story, he had only mentioned that Cas had been living in Colorado under an assumed name; information that was about as helpful as a needle in a haystack in their situation. Hmm…

“Did Castiel have a place in Colorado he might go?” the Doctor asked. Castiel had lost his memory, but safe places were one of those things you never forgot.

“No.” Sam shook his head, looking thoughtful. “He mostly just stayed with us…although, well…” The younger Winchester flashed his brother a look, then forged ahead, “We don’t know what he was doing this past year with Crowley and Heaven. As far as we know, he doesn’t have a hide-out.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t actually know where he is,” Dean complained. The Doctor continued his merry-go-round circuit around the flashing lights and switches of the console, his coattails flapping and his hands absently ruffling his hair every few seconds.

“It’s not that I don’t know, per say. I know the general area, just not the specifics,” he rambled, screeching to a halt in front of the hanging monitor screen. The display was flashing, announcing the presence of a previously undiscovered technological feature. Maybe a needle was hard to find in a haystack, but it wasn’t hopeless if you had a magnet.

“Good girl,” the Doctor murmured, fondly patting the T.A.R.D.I.S. Then, he pulled a few levers, twisted a couple of knobs, and sent them hurtling through space (but not time).

~~~***~~~

It was only after the last of the time-and-space machine’s warbles had echoed away that Sherlock finally spoke.

“So…a demon deal, hm, John?”

John winced, having known internally they were going to come back to this but having also wished very deeply that they would never touch on this subject again.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly instead.

“Why?”

The question took John by surprise. Its answer had seemed self-evident to John. Yet, John supposed he sometimes forgot how emotionally constipated Sherlock Holmes could be. At least he was better than his brother; John wasn’t sure the elder Holmes brother had ever had a woman he fancied…ever.

“You’re my friend, Sherlock,” John explained, his tone carefully neutral. He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. “That’s what friends do.”

“I don’t think most friends are willing to lay down their life for the other.” The quirked eyebrow, the ever-so-slightly amused voice, and the tiny tweak of Sherlock’s upper lip spoke all too clearly that Sherlock didn’t believe John’s excuse. Thankfully, he didn’t press John for more of his reasoning, because John wasn’t even sure what he would say. That he had gotten so used to this life at 221B Baker Street that he couldn’t live without it? That he actually considered Sherlock to be his best friend or something close to it? That he would lay his life down for Sherlock’s in a moment, just like he had at the pool?

All of these answers were half-formed and a little too emotional for John’s liking, so he silently shrugged and smiled half-heartedly at his friend.

There was a tense pause, in which John wasn’t sure if Sherlock would accept his loss for words or probe further. But then the detective merely nodded and sat himself in his armchair, perched on it like a bird with his chin on his fingertips. John smiled a little wider and folded himself into the opposite chair.

~~~***~~~

“What are you planning, Doctor?” Donna called to her eccentric friend, experience with the T.A.R.D.I.S. allowing her to balance without falling over. The Winchesters weren’t so lucky; the shaking and groaning of the T.A.R.D.I.S. was causing them both to cling to the railings with white knuckles.

“Always with the questions, Donna!” the Doctor crowed excitedly, his chocolate eyes lit up with a bright glimmer as he smoothly operated the machine’s flight. Well, smoothly except for the perpetual wheezing noise and the violent jerking back and forth, that is.

“No, but seriously! One second you don’t know where to find him, next you’re running about like a madman!” Dean protested, his face the shade of a watermelon rind.

“The T.A.R.D.I.S. has provided an angel tracker! Now we just have to locate all the angels on Earth and sort out our friendly neighborhood angel in Colorado!” the Doctor explained as he whirled around the console, hands flying almost as fast as his brain must be.

“Angels on Earth?” Sam sighed, “Not likely. They’ve all packed up and hidden away in Heaven since the Leviathans were released.”

“Yes, I’m sure their Civil War is very difficult and time-consuming, but I’m sure some rogues or field agents were left behind. You’d be surprised…” the Doctor trailed off, frowning at the display monitor.

“What is it, Doctor? Did the tracker find him?” Donna asked, sliding over to his side to peer at the screen. She whistled as her eyes took in the thirty or so red dots flashing on the map.

“This is going to be a little harder than expected,” the Doctor grimaced briefly, before plastering a smile on and spinning toward the impatiently fidgeting Winchesters, who were trying to make their way across the control room to see what Donna and the Doc were looking at.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured them, before resuming his process of pressing every button on the extremely-button-heavy console.

Donna studied the map, curiously wondering why an angel was in Tokyo. Shrugging internally, she focused on all the dots within Colorado’s borders. There were only four, thankfully. Might as well get started, then.

“Doc, let’s go to Colorado Springs! Get your T.A.R.D.I.S. to take us to this dot!” she grinned as she pointed at an especially pulse-y dot.

“Righty-o! Allons-y!”

~~~***~~~

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t entirely sure what was going on with her tenants, but if it had anything to do with the Doctor (or, possibly, Sherlock’s recent death), it meant trouble. Which meant she would have to break out her most drastic methods of comfort…

It was time to bring out the Earl Grey Tea.

So, she did. She carefully climbed the flight of stairs to John and Sherlock’s flat with two cuppas and a mountain of biscuits balanced on a rather unfortunate tray, fretting to herself about what condition the boys would be in when she got up there.

What she found instead caused all of her comfort food to fall to the floor with a clang and a splash.

~~~***~~~

Sam slipped out of the T.A.R.D.I.S., stealthily following the Doctor, Donna, and Dean (they’d make a great band) as they peeked around the edge of a brick wall to see if they could catch a glimpse of whatever angel was currently residing at 356 Rain Avenue, Colorado Springs.

A businessman (or what looked like one) marched out of the front door of the small residential home, glancing around sharply before striding to a black van parked across the street.

“We’ll take it from here,” Dean muttered to the Doctor and Donna, and he and Sam exchanged hand signals briefly, indicating what directions they would take to cut the possible angel off. While it obviously wasn’t Cas (unless he’d changed bodies, which seemed unlikely), it would still be beneficial to know what an angel was doing on Earth. Who knew, maybe they could get this angel to join them in rescuing Sherlock’s soul.

Sam strolled across the street, head down but eyes fixed on his target. The probable angel was halfway into the van’s back, and voices echoed out of the trunk. A meeting between angels? But that wasn’t right; the map had shown only one dot in this area…

Putting that issue aside for later, Sam turned right as he stepped onto the sidewalk, coming to face the front of the van. He casually walked toward his brother, who had also reached the sidewalk several yards away. Half-buried in the van as he was, the probable angel didn’t seem to notice their two-sided approach; hopefully, he wouldn’t until it was too late.

When Sam finally got to the van, he flattened himself against its midnight-colored side, slowly creeping along it until he came to its end. The possible angel was just in his field of view, his form almost completely submerged in the van now. Sam glanced over at his brother, who was only about two feet away now. Dean gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod and suddenly he had closed the distance between them in a matter of seconds as he and Sam hauled the potential angel out of the van. Before the smite-happy being could react, Dean had an angel blade pressed against the potential angel’s throat and a strong grip around his back to keep him from running off.

“Winchesters?” the potential (oh, nevermind – if this guy knew them, he was definitely the angel of this area) angel grumbled.

“Sam,” Dean prompted. Sam nodded and peered into the dimly lit back of the van.

“Wow, hey, I’m not here to cause no trouble,” a man muttered from the shadows, his arms raised in a surrendering motion.

“Who are you?” Sam asked, pulling his gun out of its holster just to be safe. The guy sounded human, but he could always be conspiring with the angels, helping forward whatever Apocalyptic plans they’d hatched up this time.

“I was just sellin’ this guy some guns, man. All perfectly legal – I’ve got my papers,” the man protested in a thick accent, pulling out a handful of crumpled pieces of paper. Frowning, Sam stepped into the van and snatched the papers from the man. The man could not look more like a sleaze, rocking the quintessential 1950s mobster outfit complete with slicked-back hair and a vest over a sweat-stained, presumably-once-white shirt.

The papers were obviously fake, but Sam wasn’t going to question them when he was on tenuous ground himself. It looked like this guy thought they were police or something, but a criminal would probably recognize their faux badges in an instant if they had to present them; hell, this man’s best friend was probably the guy who had made the badges in the first place.

“Sorry for taking your time, sir. We just need to have a word with your associate here,” Sam instructed, handing back the phony gun-selling license.

Sam gestured toward where Dean was still restraining the angry angel, groaned internally when he saw how increasingly annoyed Dean was becoming with his captive, and turned back to the criminal with a puckered face and a “hold on” hand gesture.

“Dean, c’mon, let’s get him back to the T.A.R.D.I.S.,” Sam muttered when he was out of the man’s hearing range. 

“What?! Are you suggesting we bring an angel into the Doc’s ship? No way!” his brother hissed back, his firm grip on the celestial being tightening even more.

“If you boys are done-” the angel began, but Sam cut him off.

“Right here, then? Really?” Sam tossed a pointed look back at the man still hunched in the back of the van, and Dean sighed in irritation.

“Fine. You’re coming with us, buddy.” He dragged the angel down the sidewalk and across the street toward a pair of gaping time travelers.

“We just need to ask him a few questions,” Sam assured when they reached the pair. The Doctor frowned but ushered the rag-tag bundle back into the T.A.R.D.I.S. Sam and Dean hastily escorted the now-shocked angel through the control room and down a side corridor to “an empty room, I think. This place is always changing!” (according to the Doctor).

The Doctor and Donna could focus on the search for Castiel. The Winchesters had to find out why this gun-loving angel was on Earth.

~~~***~~~

Sherlock glanced up at the noise, expecting those dreadful Winchesters or the Doctor to have returned. Instead, he spotted Mrs. Hudson gaping at them from the doorway, her hands still frozen in a mock display of holding a tray and its contents…despite those being littered all over the freshly-cleaned wood flooring.

“Mrs. Hudson?” John inquired, his face scrunching up into a frown as it did when he was confused by someone’s reaction to something.

“Sorry, dears, I just- I haven’t seen you two do that in a long time,” Mrs. Hudson apologized, bending over to begin picking up the spilled snacks.

John’s frown deepened as he looked down at what they had been playing, but Sherlock only smiled smugly, knowing exactly what Mrs. Hudson meant. It had been so long since he had been able to convince John to play Cluedo, but Sherlock had found dying and coming back to life to be a very helpful method for guilt tripping people into doing things they typically wouldn’t.

Realization spreading across his face in a rare moment of enlightenment, John turned his gaze back to Mrs. Hudson and a smug Sherlock, huffing out an annoyed, “It was his idea.”

Mrs. Hudson started giggling so hard she actually had to sit down on the floor, while Sherlock sighed in exasperation…although he couldn’t completely hide his own amused smile.

~~~***~~~

The Doctor really didn’t want to know what the Winchesters were asking that poor angel right now, but he had made sure Dean understood fully well that he “would not accept ANY harm coming to the angel so long as they were on his ship”. Hopefully that would discourage the Winchesters’ overly weaponized approach to the supernatural, at least in this one instance.

“So…which one should we try next?” Donna asked a little hesitantly, eyeing the direction the Winchesters had dragged the angel off in.

The Doctor plastered on his usual bright smile and examined the map, before deciding that, at this point, it was hopeless guessing which of the three remaining dots was Castiel. Best to just choose one and find out, although maybe it would be a good idea not to get the Winchesters involved this time. They might try to blow something up this time.

“Let’s try this one,” the Doctor suggested, pressing his finger to one of the dots as his other hand fiddled with a knob, sending the T.A.R.D.I.S. hurtling once more into flight.

Ten seconds of shaking later, the Doctor and Donna cracked open the faded blue door, looking out over way too many stacks of books. The Doctor was reminded vividly of the library where he and Donna had almost met their doom, as they navigated around tower after tower of literary material. Everything from Shakespeare’s plays to the Harry Potter books were balanced precariously on top of one another, in a manner that suggested they could all come down at any second if one made a wrong move. It wasn’t an entirely heartening thought, but the Doctor couldn’t help marveling at the stunning collection. It must have taken many, many years for the owner to attain it.

As if they had heard his thoughts (which could have been true, depending on what rank of angel they were), a scraggly, middle-aged “man” jumped out from behind a stack, a gun levelled at the time-traveling duo.

“Wow, easy there,” Donna squawked, raising her arms in surrender.

“We come in peace,” the Doctor assured, following her example and lifting his hands in the air. He blinked, vaguely recognizing the “man” before them but unsure from where.

“Who are you?” the man/maybe angel asked in a nasally voice, narrowing his eyes at them. His face crunched in concentration. “You’re not human,” he finally concluded, jabbing a finger at the Doctor.

The Doctor grinned, whipping out his sonic screwdriver and scanning the “man” in front of them. “I could say the same of you.”

“What is that?” the angel frowned, his gun lowering a little as he leaned forward. “How do you know who I am? You’re not an angel, so…”

“Nope! We’re just travelers passing through. Would you happen to know anything about another angel named ‘Castiel’? Or, wait, he’s going by a different name now, but he’s got dark hair and blue eyes.”

“Castiel? Sorry, I wasn’t really associated with most other angels. I was God’s right-hand man, though. I was his scribe! I wrote tons of stuff down for him – all the tablets, you know.” Even in his short form, the angel managed to puff himself up like a proud bird. Ahh, that explained the Doctor’s faint memory of the angel’s face. That puffed-up pride wasn’t something one forgot easily – unfortunately.

“Riiight, sounds very…interesting,” Donna attempted a smile, before flashing the Doctor a “this guy’s useless” look.

“Wait,” the angel paused his preening for a moment to regard them intently. “If you’re not angels, and you’re a human but you’re not…how do you know anything about the angels?”

“That’s a long story. Longer than we have time for, I’m afraid. We must be off! Have a lovely evening, Metatron!” the Doctor called as the two of them turned and fled back through the maze. It took a little while, but they finally found the T.A.R.D.I.S.’ beautifully familiar shape among the books and slipped safely inside.

Unbeknownst to both of them, the angel – Metatron, Scribe of God, yadda yadda – was still frozen where they had left him among his prized possessions, muttering to himself over and over. “They knew my name! Finally, someone knows my name.”

Unbeknownst to Metatron, the only reason the Doctor knew his name was because of an unfortunate incident that would occur in the future involving the Scribe of God (or, as he was referred to only by himself at the time, “X”), the Doctor, and a bucket of oranges. Not the best thing to be recognized for, really.

~~~***~~~

Despite the fact that he was currently tied to a chair that was surrounded by holy fire, the angel was looking even more confident than before as the Winchesters glared down at him.

“I’m gonna ask you again, buddy: what’re you doing on Earth?” Dean probed, his eyes hard and his fists clenched. He was having a real bitch of a day, and this stupid angel wasn’t helping. The celestial kept sniggering and making witty jabs, which was not what the interrogatee was supposed to do. They were supposed to snivel and moan and spill the beans, not act like an honored guest at some fancy dinner party. Dean really wished he could beat some sense into this angel, but the Doctor had prohibited him from doing any extra convincing. If only…

“Or what? You’re going to hurt me?” the angel mocked in a falsetto pitch, before returning to his usual snide tone, “Nothing you do to me can be worse than what I’ve done to others. I am one of Naomi’s best.”

“Naomi? Who’s that?” Sam interjected. Dean was wondering the same thing, especially because of the reverent tone this angel used when referring to her. If this chick was such a bigshot, why hadn’t they heard of her before?

“No one you’ll ever meet. She’d never waste her time with humans like you,” the angel sneered. “Now, it’s my turn. I have a few questions.”

“Yeah, we’re the only ones who ask the questions her-,” Dean began, but the angel cut him off.

“What are you Winchesters up to? You’ve got the Doctor on your side, but you’re attacking random angels on the street instead of taking out the Leviathans. I knew hunters had no brains, but I never guessed they were wimps, too,” the angel sniffed, regarding the two of them with snooty contempt. Dean was getting sick of this guy’s ego.

“Look here, stupid – this is one of your own’s mistakes, A.K.A. not our problem. So, if you’re so worried about it, you dickheads should handle it yourselves. Unless you’re too scared the Leviathan’ll eat you alive, which they probably would. They were here first, after all – an angel’s probably nothing to them,” Dean ranted. To his increased fury, the angel didn’t even blink.

“One of our own? Have you forgotten that your little friend Castiel isn’t really one of Heaven’s legions anymore? Listen, I was on his side during the big fight and all, but then he had to ruin it all and give up. That angel really never could do what he supposed to. If he was stronger, he could have controlled the Leviathans inside of him and done great things in Heaven's name, but instead he was just a weakling. I'm not, that's why I'm not worried about the Leviathans. They're too idiotic to survive, just like you from what I hear," the angel ended with a sinister smirk.

Dean punched the smug smile right off his face. Well, tried to, at least. Frickin’ angels and their frickin’ hard faces!

~~~***~~~

Emanuel smiled kindly at the newly-healed man before him, helping the man, who was named Steve, find his footing as he stood up for the first time in 2 years. This was the part Emanuel loved, the one good thing that had come from his amnesia and subsequent discovery by Daphne. The fact that every day he had the opportunity to help others and save lives reminded him why he should feel satisfied with his new life.

Yet, part of him couldn’t help but wonder who he had been before. There were a thousand questions that might never be answered, such as where had he gotten his powers from? Why had he been in that river? Did he have friends and family who were still looking for him? He had no identification or clothes on him when he stumbled into Daphne, disoriented and confused, so he couldn’t even look for a search warrant – if there even was one.

Still, he had to learn to make do. Daphne was kind, thoughtful, and had helped guide him during a vulnerable time of his life; he should be happy and honored to be her husband. By her side, he got to do great work, saving people and healing things with his mysterious powers. He was changing the world in his own tiny way, and he couldn’t ask for a better cause. What could be better than this?

Your old life, the doubt hissed from the back of his brain, but he chose to ignore it. His old life was the past, and this new life was the present. Best to focus and put aside such distracting and useless thoughts.

“I can’t believe it! You’re a miracle worker!” Steve crowed, rejuvenating the smile on Emanuel’s face. Yes, this was where he belonged.

“I only utilize the powers I naturally possess,” Emanuel corrected, “I’m glad I could help you, Steve. You are a good man.”

“Not as good as you, buddy! I thought I would never walk again. Man, how much-?”

“I don’t ask for money,” Emanuel hastily interrupted, “I only want to help others to repay humanity for the kindness it has shown me.”

“The world needs more people like you,” Steve said sincerely. Pleasantries and lengthy goodbyes followed, with Daphne offering the kind man a cookie before he went, but Steve’s words rang in Emanuel’s head like church bells. Something about that statement seemed wrong – as if it were off, somehow. Yet, Emanuel could not for the life of him pinpoint what was incorrect. Almost forgetting himself, he came back to reality in time to wish Steve one last farewell as the man cheerily walked away.

“Emanuel, are you all right?” Daphne chimed, glancing over at Emanuel with worry evident in the creases around her eyes.

“Of course,” Emanuel replied, shaking himself internally. He hated making Daphne worry; she had too much to worry about without him adding on to the list.

Daphne didn’t seem to buy his act. She frowned and gave Emanuel a once-over, but before she could comment, the rushing sound of wind and something else echoed from inside the house. Exchanging a glance with his wife, Emanuel led the way back into their blue piece of suburbia.

~~~***~~~

“Boys!” a call from down the hall caused both Winchesters to look away from the troublesome angel. He didn’t seem to be even slightly cowed by the Winchesters’ effort, his sly grin only widening after Dean’s (unsuccessful) punch.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Sam muttered to Dean, tugging on his angry brother’s arm.

“See you soon, Losechesters,” the angel snarked, and Sam had to practically drag his brother back to the control room.

“It’s 50/50 now,” the Doctor informed them when they got to the main console, “Only two angels are left in Colorado.”

“Well, what are we waitin’ for, then?” Dean grumbled, pushing past them to open the door. The rest of them could do nothing but follow.

Sam stepped out of the T.A.R.D.I.S., examining the house’s interior around him. It looked like your typical American Dream home, filled with pastel Home Depot paint shades and throw cushions with inspirational quotes on them. Still, it looked lived-in and loved, and Sam felt a small pang of jealousy at the realization that this was a place some people called ‘home’.

“Where’s-?” he began, intently searching the empty living room for any sign of their angelic friend, but he was interrupted when the very being he had been asking for hurried through the front door (clad in a ridiculous sweater – he had apparently gone full suburban mode since they’d last seen him). A pretty brunette entered a step after him, and all Sam could think was, Shit. How’s Dean going to take this?

Checking in on his brother with a subtle sideways glance showed exactly what he had feared. Dean had a closed-off expression plastered on his face; a look he only adopted when he was really hurt by something.

“So, er,” Sam started, eyeing the frozen couple in front of them. Both had their mouths hanging to the floor, and neither looked very inclined to speak first.

“I’m the Doctor. These are my…associates,” the Doctor interjected with his usual grin, “Sorry for the interruption. We’re just here to ask for your help.”

“Do you…um…have a medical problem? I’m a healer,” Cas asked hesitantly. Sam did not miss the way his fingers entwined with those of the brunette, and he was sure the action wasn’t lost on Dean either, if the disapproving sniff was anything to go by.

“Something like that, yes,” the Doctor agreed cheerfully, “If you wouldn’t mind stepping inside my box here for a second…”

“Er…” Cas glanced at his…whatever she was. She gave their tiny party a sweeping gaze, then nodded at Cas.

“And you are?” Dean asked, his eyes fixed on the woman.

“Daphne Allen. I’m Emanuel’s wife.” Daphne politely inclined her head to Dean. Dean looked torn between suspicion and shock, but he covered it well with a cough and a grunt of ascent.

“Dean Winchester. This is my brother, Sam.”

“And I’m the Doctor! Well, now that we’re all introduced!” the Doctor beckoned Cas forward. “Your, um, patient is just through here. If you’ll excuse us for a moment, Daphne. Lovely making your acquaintance!” He hopped through the open door of the time-and-space machine, with the Winchesters and one baffled “Emanuel” in tow.

~~~***~~~

While the boys settled things with the angel outside (whichever one it was this time), Donna decided to have a little chat with the supernatural being down the hall. I mean, c’mon, this guy was an angel. A freaking real, live angel. She had a couple of questions.

“Soo, what’s your story, morning glory?” she asked as she strolled into the stark white room where the angel was being held, strapped to the metal chair in the center.

“And who are you?” he asked, his nose raised in the air as if he had any kind of authority here. The little brat.

“Donna Noble, temp,” she responded, sniffing haughtily at the douche, “And you are?”

“Not a disgusting human like you,” the angel replied, equally contemptuous. Geez, this angel needed to be brought down a peg or two.

“Yeah, whatever you say, buddy. Doesn’t seem like your kind have been very good at beating the humans so far, though. I hear even those idiotic Winchesters have been able to thwart you at every turn,” Donna told him, smiling despite herself. She’d forgotten how fun it was to roast overconfident assholes.

“Well, not the Intelligence Division. We’ve remained a stronghold, even with all the chaos going on in the rest of Heaven.”

“Oh, is that so? Is that why you were trying to get guns from a human?” Donna’s smile broke out into a full-blown grin when she saw a vein on the angel’s forehead begin to pulse. Sensitive nerve, huh?

“How do you know about that?” the angel asked evenly, and Donna grinned cheekily at him.

“I was watching from the side and caught a few things your companion was saying. You angels don’t know how to pick the most subtle dealers, do ya?”

“It is no matter,” the angel shrugged, “You humans couldn’t comprehend Heaven’s affairs even if you tried. Father knows the Winchesters don’t ever understand our plans before their near-completion.”

“Well, the Winchesters are better at hitting things than understanding them. So, what’s with the guns? Are the angels just now realizing that the humans invented better toys, and the only way you’ll win against us is by using our ‘crude methods’?”

“Of course not!” the angel spluttered, before quickly regaining his composure, “Listen, Miss Naivety, for your sake, I would shut up and stay out of Heaven’s way. I would also get away from those Winchesters. Everyone near them ends up dead, and it is always because of them.” 

Before Donna could respond, she heard a shout from the control room. Seems like the boys had gotten back from their little expedition – she’d have to continue this later.

“Oh, looks like my friends have gotten back from using their superior technology to find angels. Guess I better go see what they caught. Maybe it’s a friend of yours!” Donna chirped and turned on her heel, ignoring the tiny piece of dread and doubt that had curled its way inside of her.

When the redhead had left, the angel rolled his eyes and sniffed. “Humans. So dumb they can’t even see the obvious.” The angel sighed and glanced down at his restraints. These were very unfortunate, but it was no matter. He’d be free, sooner or later. All it would take was one little slip. And then, all hell – or rather, Heaven – would break loose.

He was, after all, a master torturer. Whatever these humans did to him would be nothing compared to the righteous fury that would be brought down on them. Who knows, maybe he could end the seemingly endless problem that was the Winchesters once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s your fanfiction, girl?  
> My fanfiction is SuperWhoLock.  
> I said, my fanfiction is SuperWhoLock.  
> There’s a million chapters I haven’t wrote, but just you wait.  
> Just you wait.
> 
> I write and I stall,  
> And I ache,  
> And I take lots of breaks,  
> But if there’s a reason,  
> This is alive,  
> When so many fanfictions have died,  
> Then I’m willing to write for it,  
> I’m willing to write for it.
> 
> And if push comes to shove,  
> I will send a demon army at the boys to remind you of my love!
> 
> So…if you haven’t noticed, I love Hamilton now.
> 
> Also, in other news – I’ve written 18,800 words so far, omg!!! Thank you all so much for sticking with me, even through all of my updating issues, and I’m so excited because this is the most I’ve ever written for a fanfiction! And it is only going to get longer!
> 
> Anywho, let me know what you guys think so far! I love hearing your feedback ~ it truly brightens my day! And I would also love to talk about fandoms, especially my newfound obse- interest Hamilton! If you want to chat, just send me a message on my Tumblr: superduperfandomgirl
> 
> Love you all, my beauties! Have a STUPENDOUS day! ~ Lily <3
> 
> P.S. According to the wiki page for the episode Metatron first appears in, he was actually hiding out in Colorado. What kind of coincidence is that? A really cool one that allowed for this cameo to happen!
> 
> P.P.S. I edited a couple of sections that didn't make sense with the overall story (including the identity of the detained angel) and a few plot errors. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Drop a kudos if you like it and leave me a comment with anything from praise to constructive criticism to a description of the butterflies you saw today! I hope to update on a semi-regular schedule, but it will kind of depend on school and other shenanigans.  
> Do not fear, though: I will finish this story, no matter how long it takes me. Love you all! ~ Lily


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